


The Explanation of Bliss

by archangelgaybriel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canon Compliant, Coda, Episode: s11e04 Baby, Fluff, I have no idea honestly, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archangelgaybriel/pseuds/archangelgaybriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>11x04 coda: Sam asks Dean if he's ever wanted something more, and Dean doesn't mean to have an answer, but he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Explanation of Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> Thumbs up for bad titles, yes?
> 
> Also this is somewhat unedited (I'M SORRY). It's 4am and I really wanted to post it as early as possible so...here you go. Also I say 4am as an explanation for everything bad with this fic. (Sorry.) (Again.)
> 
> Now you can skip this part because I'm going to ramble here about the process of writing this fic because...well it _is_ 4am and no one is awake to hear me complain about everything, so you're gonna hear me complain instead.
> 
> Firstly, my dumb shoulder still aches from when I sneezed and pulled a muscle, wow thanks body for loving me. I expel germs for your health and this is how you repay me. Secondly, if you've ...somehow noticed that I haven't been posting in a looong while ha ha hello this is Great. Explanation? There was School. Then there was No School. My writing has improved (I dare say) to the point where I can read it and not cringe so much to the point where I start looking like the Grinch.
> 
> You know what. This proper typing is taxing my neck so I'll end here. If you've read till here leave a comment saying "I like the part where Cas licks jello off Dean's disco stick, it was passionate, erotic and deep all at once." and let everyone be confused.

They’ve been on the road for a while now, driving to some obsolete town in search of a case. Barely an hour ago the sky was painted orange and red, the sun slowly beginning it’s descent, but now it’s completely dark out, save for some lone headlights. Here in the vastness of the countryside, away from big lights and buildings, the sky is clear and dotted with stars.

The radio isn’t on, but the silence is broken by their small talk. Like the surprise this morning when he stepped into his car thinking he could catch a nap before going to find his brother, then finding out out that his brother was already there along with a someone else. He was happy for Sam, though. God knows he needed this break.

“You don’t… ever want something more?” Sam asks after they’ve crossed the boundaries of safe, no chick flick conversations, into the territory of Why Are All Our Relationships Screwed Up, and Dean groans internally. It’s officially begun - time for the emotionally constipated Winchesters to talk about their feelings. He’s _not_ going to hold this conversation right now. Not right now, not right after they’ve spent a good day on the road, stopping for burritos and blasting Bob Seger on the stereo. Not ever.

There isn’t really much to discuss about, anyway. The truth is simple and harsh, and he’d come to familiarise himself with the bitterness of it a long time ago. Hunting came with a hefty price tag, the cost of which he’d learnt too late. He’d learnt the hard way with Lisa and Ben, and after he left a broken family behind in his wake he finally realised that he couldn’t have an apple pie life like any other person.

He now knows that he can’t settle down, can’t live the rest of his days in a small brick house surrounded by a white picket fence. Can’t start a family, can’t cradle a child’s fist in his palm, feel the rush of pride at their first graduation ceremony, or be there to hold them in his arms when their heart gets broken for the very first time. He can’t have that. He can’t have any of that. Not for long, at least, and he would never subject anyone to false hope and short-lived happiness with him. But Sam, he knows, hasn’t quite given up the dream yet. A small part of Dean wishes that he still had his brother’s naiveness, that maybe he could hold on to the hope that one day he can set aside the life of hunting and settle down _for real_ , but he’ll never admit to that.

It’s better not to hope at all than to get your dreams crushed.

He doesn’t mention any of these; instead he looks over and casts Sam a look, one that speaks volumes. “I’m sorry, have you met _us_?”

Sam presses his lips together, evidently frustrated, but Dean’s not budging. Same topic, same deflection on Dean’s part. Wash, rinse, repeat. Sam presses on. “You don’t ever think about something? Not marriage, or whatever. But something, with a hunter, or somebody who understands the life.”

A familiar face flashes across Dean's mind instantly ( _piercing blue eyes. flushed cheeks. lips curved into a small smile._ ) and for a fleeting second his body betrays him and his breath hitches in his throat.

Has he ever thought about that? He has, perhaps one too many times. He _has_.

 _Cas_ , his mind supplies.

Something twists inside of him, an uncomfortable feeling that’s like an itch under his skin, leaving him feeling restless. Cas, curled up adorably on the sofa back at home, feet tucked under the blanket, figuring out this whole _Netflix_ business. Cas, who somewhere along the line started cupping his cheek instead of pressing two fingers on his forehead when he healed, and let his hand linger a fraction of a second too long. Cas, who can throw a perfect punch but can't cook eggs for the life of him, who crinkles his nose every time he bites into something (when he eats, that is), who can ground Dean with a single assuring touch.

He’d be lying if he replied “no” to Sam’s question, but he’d be lying to himself if he let himself think that he could have anything more than... whatever he and Cas had right now. Cas was his friend, his comrade, and nothing more. Cas has had a multitude of problems that started all those years ago when he chose them over his family, and it was his blind faith that gave way to the weariness in his bones, the kind that Dean knows time can’t fix.

He still remembers all those years ago, sitting on the park bench alongside the angel and listening as Cas confesses for the first time that he doesn’t know what is right or wrong anymore, that he has doubts and unanswered questions. He also remembers the first time their fingers intertwined with each other’s, and he still remembers the raw tenderness in Cas’ eyes as the angel explains with excruciating sincerity, “ _The moment I laid my eyes on you in hell, I knew that there was nothing more beautiful than your soul that I will ever see_ ”, before they were interrupted and the moment was gone as quickly as it came.

“You’re tired. I can tell. You’re exhausted,” Dean says quickly, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. He’s painfully aware that he’s been silent for too long. Making sure to keep his gaze steady on Sam, he continues. “Well, I’m still wired, so why don’t I pull over and get some gas, and you hop in the back and get some z’s?”

He poses it more like a statement than a question, a tone of finality in his voice that marks the end of the conversation. Sam huffs, obviously unsatisfied, but he lets his question go unanswered and for that Dean is grateful. His eyes go back to the road and focuses intently on it, but his mind still lingers on a certain somebody back home.

* * *

Long before he unleashed the darkness, before the apocalypse with Lucifer and Michael happened, long before he went into hell and was dragged out, even before he went to find Sam at Stanford, Dean had this dream.

He’s sixteen and sitting on the driver’s seat of the Impala, nervously gripping the steering wheel, eyes trained on the road. He’s technically too young to be driving, but his dad’s sitting right beside him, one hand posed near the wheel in case Dean accidentally rams them into an oncoming truck. Sam’s in the backseat with his lego, the plastic bricks clicking every time they meet each other, and he makes the occasional explosion noise. Every once in a while he bounds to the front and begs to have a go at the wheel, but is denied every single time (and every single time it doesn’t dampen his spirit). The car is filled with lyrics from the song he can’t seem to put his finger on but he knows his mom likes, because she always puts it on the stereo and sings along to it.

They pass by house after house, and Dean passes by the diner where his mom said she and his dad liked to go to for dinner back when they were young. And then soon enough he’s pulling into the driveway of his childhood home, and his mother is standing with her arms on her hips, smiling warmly at them from the doorway, and Sam leaps out of the car excitedly to greet her with a warm embrace. And finally his dad looks over and says with pride brimming in his eyes, “Perfect landing, son.” And Dean thinks, that if he had to explain what bliss was, it would be this.

When he wakes up he makes sure to never let his bitterness cloud the sweetness of it, makes sure to leave the dream pure and unadulterated as it is, filled with the familiar tune of _Someday Soon_ and the soft purr of the Impala’s engine.

* * *

The case is a success, and soon enough Dean finds himself driving back the same way he came from, sporting a couple more bruises and cuts than before. His leg bounces up and down the whole time, and he drums his fingers on the steering wheel to every song that comes on. Sam glances over more than once at his incessant fidgeting, but doesn’t comment on anything.

So, he’s excited to go back to the bunker, sue him. He hasn’t been excited in a long time. Finally he can finally do away with dingy motel rooms, say hello to his lovely memory foam mattress once again, and fix Baby up. Cas would be there in the bunker too. He hasn’t seen Cas in a long time, and the thought of seeing him again rather than hearing his voice over the phone makes him jittery in a way that he can’t explain.

The sun is still high up in the sky when they reach the bunker, and Dean pulls his keys out of his car, taps on Baby's hood as if to say, _I'll be back soon to fix you, don't worry_ , before opens the door to the bunker and ah, he's back.

"Cas!" He announces, and from behind him The door swings shut as Sam walks in after him. "Cas?"

At first there's no reply, then there's shuffling coming from the kitchen, before Dean hears Cas' voice, perpetually low and gravelly, ask, "How were the ghoulpires?"

A laugh bubbles up out of him - he can't believe he remembered that - but it dies out the minute he sees Cas. Oh. _Cas is wearing his clothes._

Why is Cas wearing his clothes? He's managed to pick Dean's favourite shirt while he’s at it - the ACDC one, and paired it with sweatpants. He looks good, really, unfairly good in _his_ clothes.

This is unfair. All Dean wants to do is to go over, slide his hand over to Cas’ waist and just pull him flush against him and press Cas’ lips against his own, feel the curve of his jaw with the palm of his hand and the flutter of Cas' eyelids, the soft sigh as tension dissolves from his body and he relaxes into Dean.

Cas must’ve seen the frozen look on Dean's face, because he glances down and then it clicks. A blush rises up his cheekbones as his eyes go wide, as though he _forgot_ he was wearing Dean’s clothes. “I’m sorry, I just… I thought I’d change my clothes and Sam’s shirts are too big for me so-” he tries to explain, but Dean cuts him off. Behind him, Sam's footsteps draw close.

“It’s fine, Cas.” Dean says a bit too quickly, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. It is, it really is. He was taken aback, that's all, and it’s entirely fault on his part. “Really, it’s fine. You can wear my stuff anytime.”

 _Shit_. Now Sam’s looking at him, his eyebrows raised so subtly he almost misses it. In front Cas shuffles his feet awkward. It’s too late to take back his words now, so he adds quickly, “y'know, because that’s what friends do.”

“Ah,” Cas says, and Dean thinks he's dreaming up the disappointment in the angel’s tone. "I see. Thank you, Dean.”

"No problem." Dean says, smiling weakly, fingers flexing by his side. _Change the topic, change the topic_. "Find anything on metadouche?"

Cas heaves a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "No, nothing. No sign of my car anywhere or any unusual occurrences. And computers are...complicated, but I think I've gotten a hang of the _Netflix_."

"Just _Netflix_ ," Sam corrects.

" _Netflix_ ," Cas amends. "I clicked on a show called _Orange Is The New Black_. I thought it was going to be about fashion but it surprisingly lacks the couture.”

He rambles on about the show - something about inadequacies of the prison system and decadent lifestyles - Dean listens to it all, laughing at Cas’ bewilderment, his heart fluttering everytime Cas scrunches his nose up in confusion at some concept he can’t grasp.

“Hey Cas,” Sam says when he enters the room again - since when did he leave? - and Cas turns to face him. “Do you think you could…” he drifts off, gesturing towards his injuries almost shyly.

“Of course,” Cas replies, and then he’s moving forward, two fingers pressing against Sam’s forehead. The cuts slowly start to fade and disappear and when his hand pulls away Sam looks as though he can breathe a little better. “Thanks Cas.”

“No problem,” he answers, and he shifts so that his eyes meets Dean’s, his head cocking, a silent question. Dean lets out a small sigh but complies, moving closer to him and letting Cas’ hand slide and cup his cheek, feel his grace flowing and the pain of his injuries slowly ebbing away.

Any other day he would’ve protested, but today he’s promised Sam. Besides, he doesn’t think he can bear any more of Cas’ worried glances every time Dean flinches when he moves a little too much.

“Thanks,” he says, and a beatific smile creeps up Cas’ face.

* * *

“So you have thought about it.”

"Thought about what?" Dean replies offhandedly as he starts working on one of the scratches on Baby, hands quick and skillful, swiftly covering the mark. Damn ghoulpires.

“My question. The one you didn’t answer the other day.”

When Dean doesn’t reply, Sam lets out a small chuckle. “Now that I’ve started paying more attention after you refused to answer me, I have to say your crush on him is pretty obvious. I mean you get all tongue-tied, _Sandra Dee_ around him. It’s kinda gross actually.”

A scowl creeps up his face and Dean can feel his cheeks beginning to burn. “I don’t- you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Do you need me to spell it out?”

Dean scowls even harder, and his hands move a little faster. “Stuff it, Samantha.”

“Hey,” Sam begins. “If this is about you liking men, I already knew a long time ago. It doesn’t concern me. You and Cas do look pretty cute together.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat. For a moment it feels like he’s 14 again and wrestling a crush on the cute kid in English class. A part of him wants to ask - _Do you think he likes me back? How do you think I should tell him that I like him?_ \- and another part wants to drive out to the nearest florist, buy the biggest bouquet of roses and leave it outside Cas’ door with a heart-shaped card stuck between the flowers.

Instead his shoulders sag wearily, and he rubs a hand over his face. “It… doesn’t matter. This isn’t going to work out. We’re both hunters. The Darkness is unleashed on the world and everyone is scared and we all might as well be dead. You and I both know relationships don’t get their happy endings when it comes to us. So just...give it up, Sam.”

“No,” Sam says firmly, and now he’s glaring at Dean, eyes blazing, mouth set into a thin line. It doesn’t take genius to figure out he’s pissed. “No. Stop saying that.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but before he can say anything Sam continues. “What I know is that you actually have something, someone good for you, and you’re pushing him away before it’s even started because you don’t think he feels the same way, because you’re scared of losing him and you’re scared of getting hurt.”

Dean’s eyelids flutter shut, and he desperately wants to yell at Sam and tell him that he doesn’t know _anything_ but the fight in him extinguishes and he just feels very, very tired, his heart a heavy weight in his chest. He knows Sam is right, and he’s scared of lying (no more lies, he had vowed), but he might be even more scared of staying silent.

“I don’t think it’s fair,” Sam continues, and his voice is quieter this time. He sounds sad, even. “To Cas. Both of you deserve something good in this shitty life, so don’t lose your shot at it while you’ve still got it.”

"Go talk to him," Sam persuades, and Dean thinks he can't ever deny anything for Cas. He doesn’t say a word, and Sam takes it as his cue to continue. "Just... know that you make him very happy. Happier than any other person could.”

Dean figures that he just got the answer to a question he didn’t dare ask.

* * *

He dreams of other things too, like waking up on a bed with soft cotton sheets and his arm slung around a waist, face buried into the crook of a neck. Sunlight streams from where the binds doesn’t cover, casting a warm glow on the bed. His partner stirs, bleary eyes blinking open, blue eyes meeting his, crinkling at the corner when he smiles softly at Dean.

“Morning Dean,” he murmurs, and Dean’s response is to tighten his grip around his waist, let his fingers run through the unkempt bedhead, down to the ends where it curls against his nape. They don’t talk, just lie there, basking in each other’s presence, and somehow that’s enough. He’s happy like this, lazing around on a Sunday afternoon with the angel by his side, both of them barely awake. Maybe they’d get up later and make pancakes in the kitchen, and sit opposite each other on the counter, drinking coffee and flipping through the newspaper. And maybe he’d make an offhanded joke about the politicians on the front page, and the other man would shake his head, but cast him a fond smile when he thinks he’s not looking, the gummy, wide one that never fails to make his insides melt.

He’s happy, he thinks- no, he knows. It’s the kind of happiness where he’s warm all over and content. He wants to be happy like this forever.

He never manages to keep his eyes open for too long, though, and despite himself he always falls asleep again, on his imaginary bed in his imaginary room, still curled up against a warm figure. When he wakes up and  opens his eyes they greet the ceiling of the bunker instead of a familiar face, and he finds that his bed is always too cold and always too big, and the certain someone he was pressed up against in his dream is always one room too far away.

* * *

He drives out to the nearest florist and buys the biggest bouquet of roses.

It feels like high school over again, almost painfully cliche. Dean tells himself that he’s doing this for the sake of chivalry, but he knows that this just buys him a little time, enough to mull over his decision and drum his fingers against every single surface they land on. (The florist merely seemed amused at his edginess, and had asked, “going after someone special?” in which Dean blushed furiously and mumbled “yes”.)

Dean buys a little fancy heart-shaped card while he’s at it too, and for a good fifteen minutes he shuffles and paces in front of the Impala, pen hovering over the card but not writing anything. How do you put 7 years of voiceless pining and an irrational fear of losing another into a couple lines? Finally he thinks “ _screw it_ ” and settles for a pun ( _a bee one perhaps? Cas likes bees._ ) and jots down as neatly as possible, “I think you are bee-utiful”.

Done. Dean twists the cap back on firmly, dumps the flowers onto the seat next to his and begins the ride back to the bunker. He thinks he’s beginning to regret, well, everything, but he doesn’t let himself act on his feelings, not this time. It’s not until he’s at the bunker, hand poised to knock on the door of the room Dean knows Cas is in before real panic sets in. If this fails... if Sam wasn’t being right about Dean making Cas happy, he might lose Cas.

Or maybe he won’t, but a niggling feeling tells him that things would never go back to the way it was. Maybe he should hide the flowers and the card, stuff it in some place no one would think to look, and think this through for a few more days, or weeks.

“Dean?” comes a gravelly voice, and Dean freezes up. Cas is standing in the hallway, a few metres from Dean. He’s holding a mug in his hands, blue eyes narrowed at the hideously big bouquet of roses in Dean’s hand. So he wasn’t in his room. “What are you…?”

“Oh! This,” Dean laughs nervously, and practically shoves it into Cas’ free hand. The frown of confusion deepens on Cas’ face as the angel takes the bouquet hesitantly. “This-”

“Did you get this for me?” Cas asks, and he surveys the bouquet in his hands. He doesn’t see the card shoved between the flowers, the one that contains a one liner that Dean hastily thought up while he was pacing around in the parking lot, and Dean doesn’t know whether that’s a blessing or a curse.

“Yeah,” Dean croaks out after a while, realising that Cas was expecting him to give some sort of explanation for the sudden gift. His face is beginning to heat up, and he wants to disappear into thin air, preferably forever. “Uh, to say thanks.”

“I never got the tradition of giving flowers,” Cas comments, but he presses the flowers close to his chest anyway. “They exist to be aesthetically pleasing. That’s their entire live's purpose.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, some tension dissipating from his body. Lightheartedness is good, lightheartedness he can handle. “Yeah well, humans are weird.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says quietly and more seriously this time, and he holds Dean’s gaze, eyes brimming with sincerity. He doesn’t move immediately, as though he can sense that Dean desperately wants to say something, but can’t find the right words. He hovers for a while, then shuffles to open his door to slip inside, and Dean knows his chance is slipping. “Wait, Cas.”

Cas turns to face him, and Dean’s hand moves up subconsciously to grasp his’, until he remembers that both Cas’ hands are full. Maybe the flowers weren’t such a good idea. His hand drops to his side, fingers flexing.

“I…,” Dean begins, and takes in a deeper breath. Cas’ gaze is soft and understanding, imperceptibly forlorn. “Dean-”

“I was never good with words,” Dean continues, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment. When he opens them he looks directly into Cas’ eyes, hoping that it made him sound more heartfelt. “Not when it came to feelings. I know that both our lives are shit, and wholly unpredictable, and I’ve spent a good portion of mine trying to convince myself that love wasn’t worth it, until I met you. And I guess that if I had to spend the rest of my time with someone... it would be you.”

“Dean,” is all Cas says, his voice raw with emotion, and he’s looking at Dean like he’s his entire world. “Dean,” he says again, before he carelessly casts aside the mug and flowers in his hands to tug at the lapels of Dean’s jacket, pulling him closer and flush against him, sealing their lips together.

And Dean thinks, that if he had to explain what bliss was, this would be it.

**Author's Note:**

> Sidenote: You can find me on [tumblr](http://puppymish.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/puppymish)! You will find that the amount of effort I put into typing everything in nice Whole Words and with appropriate Capitals is startling.
> 
> If you like this leave kudos and comments pretty please? *holds a knife to your throat* Pretty please?


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